


Gone Too Long (From You)

by novelized



Category: Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: I can’t stop thinking about you,Richard sends.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 36
Kudos: 192
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Gone Too Long (From You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mriaow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mriaow/gifts).



The text comes at some absurd hour; Taron usually keeps his phone plugged in while he’s sleeping, safely tucked away, but last night he’d forgotten, and the buzzing wakes him up. He rolls over in bed, considers ignoring it, but he’s never been able to fall back asleep easily, and he’s up now, so he figures he might as well check.

It’s from Richard.

 _I can’t stop thinking about you,_ it says.

Taron’s stomach does a flip.

 _I can’t stop thinking about you,_ Richard had sent, out of nowhere, in the dead of the fucking night, days since they’d last talked—and that conversation had been airy, unimportant. Little pleasantries, an Instagram commment here or there. They’d never—Richard had never said anything of the sort before, and it’s—

He wonders if it’s a mistake. Wrong number.

It doesn’t feel like a wrong number.

 _I can’t stop thinking about you,_ because even if they’ve never _said_ it, there’s always been—something. Theirs was not a typical fucking friendship. He knows this. His mates have reminded him, hundreds of times. Hours and hours spent together, and Taron had never wanted to go home, at the end of the day, had picked Richard’s company over everyone else’s, and would've gladly done it again—

He has no idea what to write back. If Richard’s drunk, or—or immediately regretted pressing send, if he’s looking at his phone in horror—

Taron lays awake for hours, until the morning sun starts creeping in. He thinks of a thousand different responses, and none of them feel right.

***

He’s got to be up and alert too early, that day. He’s got a flight to Los Angeles, and there’s no time for idle worries; he’s bussed about, doesn’t stop moving til he’s on the plane, buckled in, lights off overhead. Even then he doesn’t know how to reply. He goes through the pictures on his phone, once they’re up in the air, and realizes he’s got a shitload of Richard. Too many, maybe. A conspicuous amount. Pictures of them on set. Them at a pub, tired and tipsy, grinning over dark beers. Taron with his arm around Richard’s waist. Richard tugging up a kimono, saucy, to expose his bare upper thigh. Them in London, in New York, in the south of bloody France. Taron’s neck feels strangely warm.

He thinks about the countless nights they’d stayed up late and talking, and Richard always checking on him, making sure he was drinking enough water, and Taron finding excuses to join him on cigarette breaks, long after he’d quit smoking—

It’s hard to stop thinking about Richard, too. Took him months to get here, this startling clarity, but now: imagine that.

***

There’s a screening, and then a Q+A, and the energy in the room is vibrant, catching. He and Dex have always been able to play off each other, always had the sort of easy chemistry that other actor-directors probably dream of. The questions from the audience are thoughtful, and kind, and he gets asked about Richard a few times, tells some jokes, does a bad Scottish accent. It kills with this crowd. Afterwards, he and Dexter go for a late dinner, private booth in the back of an LA restaurant, and he orders a fucking salad while Dex goes for a cheeseburger, heavy on the cheese. It’s painfully unfair.

“Your Madden impression’s improving,” Dex teases, halfway through a bite. “You talked to him lately?”

Taron looks up, feels distinctly caught. But it’s an innocent question; Dexter’s never been a man of ulterior motives. “Not as much as I’d like,” he says, after a beat. “The Marvel Machine’s got him locked up tight, I think. Probably only let him out to film and take the occasional wee.”

Dexter snorts around his burger. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells him, breezy. “Things’ll work out. You two are peas in a fucking pod, hm?”

***

There’d been a moment on set. One in particular. They’d been at it for hours already, rolling around on a soft bed, warm skin and timely thrusts, Richard’s legs wrapped round his waist, again and again and again, and it’d been fine, _fine_ , until one take: Richard’s naked thigh nudged against him, just so, Richard’s breath heavy in his ear. Taron’s brain had short-circuited; he’d tried to shift away. Richard’s eyes had dipped down, quickly flickered back up, and Taron shoved a pillow between their bodies as a buffer. “Dicks, man,” he’d shrugged, tried to play it off. Had a million excuses ready to go. Would’ve happened to anyone in his position, he’d thought. It was normal, he’d thought.

But maybe—

Maybe it wasn’t just—

***

Taron has a few after-dinner cocktails before he and Dex part ways, then goes back to his hotel alone. He’d left the window cracked and the room is drafty, and big. He paces a little, too wired to go to bed just yet. Turns the telly on, and then off. Gets out a book, and then puts it away. Picks up his phone six separate times. He thinks he might burst out of his skin.

On the seventh time he carries it over to the minibar, pours himself another too-expensive drink. He goes heavy on the ice cubes, lets them clink around his glass, and then sucks in a breath and calls Richard. It’s getting late, in Los Angeles. He’s no idea what time it is in Fuerteventura. He imagines Richard’s probably fast asleep, but he can’t hang up now, with a missed call and no explanation in its wake. This was ridiculous. He’ll leave a voicemail, he decides, something friendly and vague, just calling to say hello, that sort of deal—but to his surprise, Richard answers on the second ring.

“Hiya,” Richard says easily.

Taron swallows. “Hi,” he says. His voice sounds odd, which is stupid. It’s Richard. “What’re you doing?”

“Just got back from the gym. My trainer’s got it out for me, I swear. Burpees first thing in the morning, what sort of lunatic— Anyway, I’ve got a few hours to freshen up before I’ve got to be on set. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, really. I’m—I’m in Los Angeles.”

“That’s right! How’d it go? Hardest working man in the biz, I swear to it.” 

“Says the superhero awake at—what time is it there?”

Richard chuckles. “Early,” he says. “Which means it must be late for you, hm? Can’t sleep?”

“Can’t sleep,” Taron agrees. His heart’s pounding against his chest, and it feels—reckless, maybe. But he likes reckless. Likes this. Likes them. He lifts his drink up and drains the rest of it in one go, for courage, then slams it back on the counter.

“Richard,” he says boldly, “I’m also—I’ve been thinking about you nonstop.”

There’s silence on the other end. And then Richard’s breath catches, slight. “T,” he says quietly, “are you drunk?”

“No,” Taron says. He’s not. He’s never felt more clearheaded in his life, he thinks. Took a bit of prodding from Richard, sure. But he’s there. “Just—all night, I wished you were here. I still wish you were here, with me. Right now.” He tightens his grip on the phone, bites down on his lip. “Really is unfortunate you’re too busy taking over the world.”

Another pause. He can practically hear Richard thinking. He’s always been so fucking thoughtful. “If I were there…” Richard says, slow and halted. “What would we be doing?”

A shiver courses down Taron’s spine. He moves to the bed. Crawls back against the pillows and runs a hand through his hair. He’s done this a handful of times before, with girls. It’s never quite felt like this. “I—” Taron starts, but has to clear his throat and start again. “I’d bring you back to my hotel room.”

Richard hums his approval.

“And I think—I think I’d let you undress me, if you wanted.”

A shaky exhale. “I’d want to,” he says, at once. “You’d want me to?”

Taron doesn’t need to consider. He knows, without a single fucking doubt, that he does.

It doesn’t even freak him out.

There’s that settled, then.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Closes his eyes, reaches down and palms himself, just a few times, gently.

“What’re you wearing?”

He glances down. “Sweatpants,” he admits, and then pauses. “Shit. I should’ve said something sexier. I mean, definitely _not_ sweatpants that haven’t been washed in a week, I, uh, should I have said ‘nothing,’ d’you think?”

“I think you in sweatpants is sexy,” Richard says, a laugh behind his voice. “I think—fuck, Taron, I think you’re sexy all the time. Is that okay to say?”

Taron slips a hand into his shorts, grits his teeth. “Yes. Yeah. It is. And you’re, I mean, obviously, the whole world knows, kind of insane that you’re—that I get to—”

He hears the unmistakable _pop_ of a lid from Richard’s end, and he can’t believe how much it turns him on. “Are you—?”

“Mmhmm,” Richard says. “And you?”

Taron’s grip tightens; he imagines it’s Richard’s hand. Imagines it’s Richard. “Yeah. Yeah, course I am.”

“Are you someplace you can be loud?”

“I—I think so. Window’s open. Unless The Sun’s got a drone out there. Wouldn’t put it past them, mind.”

Richard laughs quietly again. “Good,” he says, and then: “I want to hear you, Taron.” 

He groans, low and needy, almost on command. “Fuck. Okay. That’s hot, that’s—how is that so hot?”

“Been a minute since you’ve done this, mate?” Richard asks, just this side of teasing. His breath picks up, though, loud and heavy down the line. “Got to admit, I’ve imagined this before.”

Taron jerks himself in earnest now, no care to keep quiet, no care in the fucking world. “Yeah? This measure up?” he says, panting slightly against the phone.

“Better,” Richard tells him. “Because it’s real.”

He can picture it too easily: Richard, still sweat-soaked from his workout, rucking up the bedsheets, curled fist and hips thrusting, and god, he wishes he was there. Wishes he could touch Richard, everywhere. All over. “Richard, I—fuck, I want to do everything with you, want to blow you, want you to—” His pace quickens; he moans again, guttural, and he can hear obscene slick noises from Richard’s side, can hear the hiss of breath between his teeth.

“Want that too, T,” he manages, “I’d let you— _anything_ —”

And it’s the image, the thought, Richard’s _voice_ that brings him to the edge: clasps the phone like a lifeline when he comes, and it’s wild, a moment later, to know, from Richard’s shuddered gasp into the speaker, that a world away, he’s right there too.

“Jesus,” Taron says, once his heart’s settled back into a steady even rhythm, wipes his hand against his shorts. “Not a bad way to end the day.”

“Not a bad way to start it,” Richard agrees. “Should probably get going now, but that was—”

“The most incredible fifteen minutes of your life?”

“Was gonna say a valiant effort, but sure, let’s go with that.”

Taron grins against the phone. “Talk to you later?”

“You’d better. G’night, Taron.”

The line clicks into silence; Taron clutches it against his ribcage, tight, and closes his eyes.

***

The next morning, another flight. Back to London this time, a short reprieve before the next gig. He’s sat next to Dexter, who looks well-rested enough, and who gives him a furtive glance the second he’s buckled himself in. “You’re in a chipper mood,” Dex observes. Taron tries to iron out his smile, because—it’s not exactly something he can put into words, this. Can barely explain it to himself.

“Good night last night,” Taron says simply, and Dex just nods his head and agrees.

***

When they land, he’s got a missed call from Richard. It’s only been twelve hours. He pockets his phone, reluctantly. Forces himself to wait until he’s safely back at his flat, wants privacy, wants—Richard. The door’s barely closed behind him before he’s fumbling to call him back.

“I’m sorry,” Richard says, in lieu of a greeting. Picked up on the first ring, this time. “This is insane. I probably shouldn’t have called you so soon—it’s just that I’ve been utterly distracted today. I’m a mess. I’ve got to get my shit together or they’re going to replace me with Sebastian Stan.”

“Sebastian Stan wishes,” Taron says, with a scoff. 

“Come to Spain.”

There is no hesitancy in Richard’s voice; he puts it out there, plain and simple. Taron exhales sharply.

“I can’t come to Spain, you tosser. I’m a bit busy peddling our film across the world, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Come to Spain,” Richard repeats, unabashed. “I’ll wine and dine you proper. I’ll blow you in Antigua. I’ll introduce you to Angelina.”

Taron pauses. “You’ll introduce me to Angelina?”

“I will. And I’ll let you shag me in the trailer.” 

“Do you think she’ll like me?”

Richard huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Course she will,” he says. “It’s impossible not to.” He pauses, and then, softer: “Come out here, Taron. I want to see you. I want to—” His voice trails off, and Taron’s mind, always overactive, always helpful, immediately fills in the blank.

It’s ridiculous, and foolish, and Taron knows he’s due for some sort of verbal lashing. He should be resting. Should be taking it easy before he’s whisked away again. He’s got a little less than forty-eight hours. He doesn’t care. He books a fucking flight.

***

There’s a car waiting for him. Richard had warned him that the paps here were relentless, but Taron’s packed light, he’s got baggy sweatpants and a beanie pulled low, understated shades, and he manages to slide by relatively unseen. The driver nods at him politely, doesn’t ask where he’s going. Richard’s arranged that, then.

His stomach’s a ball of nerves. They’ve never done this before. They’ve never done this for real.

It’s a short ride. He thanks the driver and steps out, when he’s there, climbs the few steps, hesitates a moment. Sucks in a breath, lifts his hand and knocks.

The door creaks open.

Richard looks at him from the other side.

He’s fucking gorgeous, bright eyes and soft curls, and he’s toned up since Taron’s last seen him, looking every bit the leading man in a massive movie franchise. “Oh, sorry,” Taron says, first thing. “I was looking for Rich Madden. It’s Chris Hemsworth, innit? Good to meet you, mate.”

Richard laughs. “Fuck off,” he says fondly, and nods for Taron to come in.

Taron steps inside. The door closes behind him, and for a moment, things between them feel—strange. New. This is the closest thing to a bootycall he’s done in ages. Not a bad way to kickstart old habits, he imagines. 

But then Richard pulls him into a hug, and it’s like things haven’t changed at all.

“You hungry?” Richard asks, and gestures to the coffee table. He’s got a whole spread there, but it’s the most pathetic spread Taron’s ever seen: sparkling water, chopped veggies, olives and pickles arranged in a row. He grimaces. “Afraid I haven’t got anything good. They monitor my grocery bill, would you believe.”

“I don’t believe,” Taron says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’re capable of showing incredible amounts of self-restraint, in my experience.” 

Richard pauses, halfway through reaching for a carrot stick. “Didn’t have much choice. In your experience.” He glances at Taron. “At least, I didn’t think I did.”

“Learning curve for both of us, then.”

“Yeah,” Richard says, after a pause. “I suppose so.” He clears his throat. “That’s a no to the celery, then?”

Taron perches on the arm of the sofa, and Richard sits opposite him, and they talk. Richard tells him about filming, tells him about his castmates, tells him a few Marvel secrets that he makes Taron swear to take to his grave. Taron tells him about the new slew of screenings, about the near-constant déjà vu, about the Oscars questions he’s got to stumble through time and time again. Their conversation is nice. Easy. They joke, but don’t touch. Taron wants to do—something. He doesn’t know how.

This was less intimidating on the phone.

This was less intimidating when the repercussions weren’t quite so—palpable. 

“Can I use your toilet?” he asks, when he can’t take it anymore, and Richard points him towards a closed door at the end of the hall. Taron excuses himself, heads in that direction. Pauses with his hand on the doorknob, his pulse picking up, and then immediately turns back around.

Richard quirks an eyebrow at him, questioning.

There was a reason he’d flown across the continent.

They don’t have near enough time.

Taron makes a decision. He crosses the room, grabs Richard by the collar, and kisses him.

As easy as the rest of it.

Richard moves into the kiss immediately, his hand curling around the back of Taron’s neck, and then deepens it, frantic, almost, the space between their bodies evaporating. Doesn’t pull away until he has to, and even then, he presses one more kiss against the corner of Taron’s mouth, then drops his forehead onto Taron’s shoulder and makes a little noise, either a laugh or a groan, Taron can’t tell. Maybe some combination of them both.

“I was waiting for you to do that,” he mumbles into Taron’s collarbone.

Taron slips a hand into the back of Richard’s shirt, light, drags his fingers against warm skin. “Then why didn’t you just do it?”

“I just needed you to be sure.”

“What part of me getting off to your stupid _brogue_ ,” Taron says indignantly, “makes you think I’m not sure?” He tips Richard’s chin up and kisses him again, even nips a little at Richard’s bottom lip, just to prove a point.

Richard keeps him close with a thumb hooked into Taron’s waistband. 

But then he pulls back, suddenly serious, and looks Taron in the eye. “Do ye really think me brogue’s stupid?” he says, laying it on nice and thick.

Taron snorts out a laugh. Puts on his absolute worst Scottish accent, one that would’ve got him heckled out of any audience, and says, “Just fir that, Dickie lad, yer not tae get even a wee bit o' hochmagandy.”

“Christ,” Richard says, dropping all pretense. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Did I really teach you that one?”

“No,” Taron grins. “I googled it.” 

Richard shakes his head. “I think we should stop talking now.”

“Yeah? What’d you have in mind?”

He slips a hand into Taron’s. Pulls him towards the bedroom, and a thrill runs through Taron’s entire body. It’s not—not the newness of this that’s the most exciting part. Not just the discovery.

It’s Richard.

It’s just being with Richard.

“Bit embarrassing,” Taron admits, “but I’ve got to tell you, Richard, I think I might have a crush on you.”

Richard’s eyes widen. “Oh, that _is_ embarrassing.” He reaches forward and unzips Taron’s hoodie, pushes it off of his shoulders. Tugs at his shirt next. Up and over his head, thrown carelessly on the floor. “Pity sex, then, to make you feel better?”

“How’d you know, that’s my favorite kind.”

Richard strips his own shirt quickly—and he really _is_ fucking fit, all hard muscles and smooth skin, and Taron loses himself for a minute just staring. “Burpees first thing in the morning, eh?” he says, reaches out and grazes his fingertips over Richard’s abs; can’t believe that he can just do that, that he gets to do that. Richard catches his hands and holds them against his stomach.

“Enjoy it while you can,” he says, then brushes a kiss over Taron’s knuckles. “It’s all disappearing the second we wrap.” 

“You’ll still look good,” Taron tells him. “You always do.”

Richard’s expression softens, and then he grabs at Taron’s waist and pulls him in close, hips brushing, so that Taron can _feel_ that he’s—into this. Taron glances downwards, breath caught high, and Richard shrugs. “Dicks, man,” he murmurs into Taron’s ear, and Taron puffs out a shaky laugh that dies in his throat the second Richard’s hand glides between their bodies and slips into Taron’s sweatpants.

He curls his hand around him and strokes him a few times, experimental. “This still okay?” he asks quietly, and Taron, in response, shoves his sweatpants all the way down and steps out of them at once.

“Bed?” Taron says hopefully.

“Bed,” Richard agrees.

Just as easy.

With them, it always is.

***

Taron wakes up that next morning, warm and sated, curled up against Richard’s side. He comes to slowly, traces his fingertips across Richard’s upturned palm. Thinks this might just be the best spontaneous holiday of his life, once he’s gone and met Angelina, and maybe tried on Richard’s spandex. Richard grins at him, soft and sleepy, and Taron presses his lips against Richard’s wrist. “I’m glad you sent that text,” he murmurs.

Richard’s other hand strokes down his back. “What text?”

Taron pulls back to look at him, waits for him to laugh. He doesn’t. “The text,” he says, “you—”

Richard’s eyebrows lift. Taron stares at him a beat longer, then shifts out of his arms, reaches for his phone. They’d called, a few times since, but it’s still the last message he’d received from Richard: _I can’t stop thinking about you_ , he’d written. There in plain sight.

Richard studies the screen for a moment, and then his face blanches. “Oh god,” he says, “that’s—”

He digs for his own phone, still in the pocket of the trousers he’d discarded, fumbles it open, scrolls down to Taron’s name, and stifles back a laugh. He holds up the screen for Taron to see. _I can’t stop thinking about you_ the first text says, and an unsent second underneath, a red exclamation point, Not Delivered: _asking Awkwafina if she still updates her Myspace._

Taron is horrified. There’s a heavy lull between them, and Taron swallows, says, “So then… This never… You haven’t—” 

“T,” Richard says, and takes Taron’s face in his hands. Kisses him square on the mouth; kisses away his uncertainty. “I’m bloody glad that second text didn’t go through.”

Taron opens his mouth to argue, but Richard cuts him off. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, pointed. Shifts over, legs tangling into Taron’s. Aims the next kiss for his shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says again. He buries himself under the blankets, trailing his lips down Taron’s chest, his stomach. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he repeats, one last time, his mouth moving southwards, and Taron hisses out a breath and sifts his hand into Richard’s hair. 

Even if he’d misinterpreted the text, Taron thinks, his eyes falling shut—he’s fucking glad that he’d called.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy first yuletide, mriaow! I hope you enjoyed! xx


End file.
